


vulnerable in oh so many ways

by lucylikestowrite



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bathroom Sex, Don't say I didn't warn you, F/F, Hate Sex, Kinda, Like, Mild Smut, Missing Scene, Not A Fix-It, Sad, it's more angst than smut tbh, its sad okay, mid argument sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-11-27 06:06:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18190736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucylikestowrite/pseuds/lucylikestowrite
Summary: “Don’t leave.” It spills out of Ava’s mouth before she can stop it from escaping.Sara’s arms are still crossed. “Why? Have you rethought your position?”Ava rolls her eyes. “No. Obviously not.”or: the angsty smut everyone definitely wanted





	vulnerable in oh so many ways

The door to the powder room opens. Ava turns her head from the mirror, just in time to see Sara walk in. As soon as she clocks Ava, she sighs, goes to leave again, and Ava hates it. Hates that Sara wants to walk away, hates Sara for what she’s done, hates the situation, hates herself for hating Sara.

Hates that, despite everything, she doesn’t want Sara to leave. Rage is bubbling in her stomach. She grits in her teeth, turns fully to face Sara. “No,” she says, her voice hard, her jaw set.

Sara crosses her arms. “No, _what_ , Ava?”

“Don’t leave.” It spills out of Ava’s mouth before she can stop it from escaping, before she can think better of speaking.

Sara’s arms are still crossed. “Why? Have you rethought your _position_?”

Ava rolls her eyes. “No. Obviously not.”

“Obviously not,” Sara repeats, spitting it out. “Because you’re always right, yeah?”

The rage is heating her entire body, moving upwards, burning through her chest, up into her mouth, making her want to spit fire. But it’s also moving downwards, deep into the pit of belly, and then the heat isn’t rage anymore and Sara looks so good, she looks _so_ good, she’s never seen her look _this_ fancy, and Ava’s not going to budge on the fugitive, she’s not going to do that, but—

But Sara’s mouth is bright red and shiny and she wants that on her neck, wants to forget it all for a second, for a minute, for an hour. Wants to ignore the fact that they’re arguing and kiss her, and feel her kiss back.

“Shut up,” Ava says, roughly, and then she’s moving forward, capturing Sara’s lips with her own, her hands around the back of Sara’s neck, cupping it possessively.

Sara kisses back, her hands resting automatically on Ava’s waistline, and then she pulls back. “Is this us making up?” she asks, looking up at Ava.

“No,” Ava says. “Not at all.”

Sara raises an eyebrow at that, and Ava can almost see the cogs turning in her head. “I’m too hot to resist?” she says, with a smirk. “Even when you’re mad at me? You really want me, huh?”

“Shut up,” Ava says, again, leaning back in to kiss her, tugging her face up, and pulling her backwards, towards the actual bathroom, towards a door with a lock. When they’re through, she pushes Sara back up against the door. She’s not thinking of anything except Sara’s lips, and then she hears a lock click, realises that Sara’s locked it, locked it without Ava even asking, and it’s _her_ turn to pull back, smirk. “You really want me, huh?” she echoes, tilting her head, her mouth opening slightly.

“Sure, baby,” Sara says, not even a hint of bashfulness on her face, like this is normal for her, fucking people when she’s mad at them, and, maybe it is. Ava grits her teeth, again, and it’s like Sara can see her tensing, see the muscles in her arm tightening, because her voice gets ever so slightly softer, and she says, “You don’t have to do this, Ava. We can go back to arguing and forget this ever happened.”

“Fuck that,” Ava hisses, and Sara shrugs, and then she’s pushing them away from the door, mouths joined together, hands everywhere and anywhere and Ava’s fingers teasing at the straps of Sara’s dress, Sara’s hands in Ava’s hair, messing up the perfect curls, until they hit the opposite wall, and Sara moves her mouth to Ava’s neck, settling in there like always.

Ava sighs into it, because this is how they fit together best—Sara’s face in the curve of Ava’s neck, their heights working out perfectly, their bodies moulding together like they were made to do it.

Their bodies, that don’t know that they’re arguing. Don’t know that Ava is loving and hating how they slot together, loving and hating how Sara knew exactly what Ava would want: her lips staining Ava’s neck, her hands gripping tighter and tighter on Ava’s waist, and her knee nudging between Ava’s legs.

All she can do is clutch onto Sara’s back, try to remember why she’s mad, try to keep hold of the voice in her head telling her that Sara is _wrong,_ and that even if she _isn’t,_ she still needs to yield to the Bureau for the meantime, at least until they figure things out.

But it’s hard to remember that when her head is tipping back, hitting the wall, her eyes rolling back in her head, because Sara knows just how to make her melt, how to kiss her until it feels like she’s going to collapse.

Sara bites down, just the tiniest, tiniest bit, not enough to leave a mark, but enough to send a jolt through Ava’s body, to force a gasp of pleasure and the tiniest moan out of her body, to give Sara the confirmation she needs to slide her hand lower, lower, lower, until it’s teasing over the slit in Ava’s dress.

“Who said it’s— who said you’re— who said—”

“Who said I’m doing you?” Sara asks, her fingers pressing up higher, ruching the fabric up slightly, creeping up her thigh. “Aren’t I? Isn’t that what you wanted when you jumped me?”

“Didn’t… jump you,” Ava mumbles, but it’s useless, because she _did_ , and that _is_ what she wants, and she hates that Sara knows that, hates that Sara knows her better than anyone, better than anyone ever has, _loves_ her more than anyone ever has, that they’re arguing, that she desperately needs Sara to do something about the heat between her legs before she screams.

“Mmhmm,” Sara hums, before leaning in to kiss her again. The lipstick is disappearing from her face, and Ava knows it’s on her neck, her face, her lips, and she can’t bring herself to care. All she can do is kiss back. “Whatever you want to tell yourself, Aves,” Sara whispers against her lips.

“God,” Ava murmurs, her hand sliding up Sara’s neck to grip down below Sara’s bun, fingers digging into Sara’s scalp. “God.”

“You know, the second I saw you tonight, all I wanted to was drag you in here. Fuck you until you couldn’t talk. If we hadn’t argued, I would’ve already done it. You would have already come on my fingers, baby.” Ava swallows, unable to do anything but hold Sara’s gaze. Sara’s hand is still moving higher, and any second she’s going to realise— “I wanted to fuck you as soon as I saw you. And then I _felt you up,_ and that changed, because do you know what I realised?”

“What?” Ava gasps, but she already knows, hates the stupid tight dress, hates the fact that all of her underwear is _practical_ and not made for dresses like this _,_ hates Sara for noticing.

“That you’re not wearing underwear. At a _work_ event. I wouldn’t have expected that from _you_ , _Director_.” Sara almost purrs it, and Ava hates it. Hates it loves it hates it.

Sara’s hand finally reaches high enough to find the skin that panties should be covering, her thumb stroking over Ava’s hip, the gesture so soft it hurts.

Ava rolls her eyes, trying to act nonchalant, trying to act like she’s not half a second from collapsing into a pile of goo, from going back against everything she stands for, and ending the argument, just so that she can see Sara smile, not smirk, so that she can tell her she loves her, that she adores her, that she needs her. So that she can tell her everything she can’t right now.

She steels herself, replies. “I’d already bought the dress when I realised how tight it was. I wasn’t going to return it.”

“That’s it?” Sara asks. “Really? It’s not because you wanted to make it nice and easy for me to—” Sara pauses, drops to her knees, her hands skating down Ava’s body, following the path they’d taken earlier. Ava groans, because if there were a chance she was going to be able to turn back, it’s gone now, just at the _sight_ of Sara on her knees, staring up at her, her lips parted, her tongue obvious between them. “Nice and easy for me to do _this_?”

No and yes and no and maybe when she’d ordered it, she’d thought a little about going back to theirs, to Sara slowly tracing her fingers up Ava’s thigh, to her pushing it up to her hips, working into her, and then finally peeling it off of her body, before spending an endless night in their bed.

Maybe she had thought of that.

Maybe she’d give anything to be doing that, instead of this. To end the argument and make it so they _can_ do that.

But she doesn’t.

She’s not there. She’s not _going_ to be there. Not tonight.

Tonight, she’s _here_.

She’s here, up against a wall, wanting and waiting and desperate.

“Just eat me out,” she almost growls. Sara going slow is killing her. She’s so aroused it feels like she’s going to burn up, and every second Sara doesn’t act, every second she lets the moment drag out, it gets worse.

And then she lets out a harsh laugh, because this, Sara being stubborn and doing things _her_ way is exactly why they’re arguing, and of _course_ Sara is the exact same in bed (up against a wall) as she is when it comes to missions, to the Bureau, to the Legends.

“Why am I even surprised that you’re making me wait?” Ava asks, her voice bitter, shaking her head and gritting her teeth. “Everything’s always gotta be on _your_ terms, doesn’t it? Gotta be about what _you_ want to do. How _you_ think things should play out.”

As she speaks, she feels Sara flinch against her, her hands trembling the tiniest bit, and she feels like, for the first time, she’s actually gotten under Sara’s skin.

Probably because she’s never complained about being made to wait before. She’s always desperate to spend time with Sara, which means being perfectly happy for sex to draw out over hours, because if they’re buried in each other, if Ava hasn’t come, then Sara can’t be pulled away by the Legends.

The slower Sara goes, the longer they get together. So Ava lets her go slow, as slow as she wants. Lets Sara do whatever she wants.

And that’s the other problem with what Ava has just said.

They’d never even talked about it. It had kind of just… happened, natural like breathing, like eating and drinking and sleeping. It had just been natural to let Sara lead, to let her make the decisions, because Sara’s good at that, good at leading, and, unlike Ava, isn’t thrown even when there aren’t rules and procedures to follow.

Ava’s not good at that, and Sara is, so it had always made sense to do things they way they do it. They’d never even questioned it, both accepting it like an objective truth, and, so, that comment, biting, and thrown at Sara--the idea that Ava doesn’t like it when Sara takes the lead, checks that Ava’s into everything and then proceeds on her own, pulling pleasure out her without needing to ask what Ava needs, teasing and waiting and always ending everything perfectly, that Sara had gotten everything _wrong_ —has to sting.

And, as angry as Ava is, she should be glad that it’s hurt, but she’s not, she can’t be, not really, because it’s not true that she doesn’t like it. It’s the furthest thing from the truth.

She loves it. Loves being cared for. Loves being able to forget everything, to shed the duties she has and just let herself _feel._ All she’s really frustrated about is _right now_ , but she’s just angry enough to let Sara think that Ava’s rethinking their entire dynamic, just angry enough to let that one spiteful jab out.

A tiny part of her tells her that she’s going to regret that, once this has blown over, but she pushes that down, because she’s angry and horny and she just wants Sara’s mouth on her right now.

But she’s not getting that, because Sara is frozen, her hands on Ava’s hips, and although she can’t take those words back, not yet, anyway, she can at least concede _something_ , and so she closes her eyes, swallows her pride enough to let, “Sara, please,” slip out of her lips, almost whispered it’s so quiet, hardly more than a breath. That seems to be just enough for Sara to unfreeze. Those two words.

Three syllables.

The wrong three syllables, but just right enough for Sara to finally push the black fabric away from Ava’s legs, to hook Ava’s leg over her shoulder, and to finally press her mouth up against Ava’s centre.

There’s nothing different about the way she does _that_. About the way she moves her tongue, the way that, when the tip just brushes over where Ava needs it, the feeling shoots through every part of her body. The way that she knows exactly what Ava likes, knows exactly what ramps her up, speeding her movements up, working every inch of Ava over.

She also knows how to keep Ava on the edge, but she doesn’t do that, not after what Ava has just said. She pushes things, but not that far.

Sara never pushes things too far, ever, just one of the many ways she shows her love.

Ava hopes that this means that love is still there.

Sara doesn’t slow down, and Ava can feel it hurtling towards her at light speed. She’s wound up so tight, anger and arousal mixing in her belly, and she hasn’t felt this closing to coming this quickly in months, not since they got back together, not since the first night together they’d spent in a month, but her legs are shaking and she’s gasping for breath and she knows she has to completely flushed and a mess and then Sara sucks down, expert and precise and perfect, and everything goes white, Ava’s hands curling into fists, clutching at nothing, because she doesn’t want to ruin Sara’s pristine bun.

The, “I love you,” that always accompanies her orgasms is in her throat, but she bites her tongue, not letting it slip out.

She _literally_ bites her tongue, so hard that it brings tears to her eyes, and she blinks them away, determined not to cry in front of Sara, not while they’re like this.

By the time Sara pulls back, smoothing Ava’s dress back down, the tears are no longer hovering on her lashline. Sara wipes her mouth on her arm, and just that little motion, dismissive and clinical, sends sadness into the pit of Ava’s stomach.

She shouldn’t be sad about something so dirty, about the aftermath of sex, about how all she wants is to kiss the mess away, but she is.

If she and Sara weren’t arguing, she could’ve admitted that, and Sara would’ve laughed, teased her over it, over how Sara has corrupted her, made her _want_ that, but they _are_ arguing, and so Ava doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t do anything. Just stares at Sara, her arms crossed protectively over her chest, like she can hold herself together.

Other than Sara’s lipstick, she’s still perfectly put together. Ava has no clue how Sara’s done that. She knows she’s a mess, and that’s confirmed when she steps in front of the mirror and swears, taking in the red everywhere. She hadn’t thought Sara had kissed her this much, but she _had._ She’d kissed her everywhere.

Sara turns to her after she’s done reapplying her lipstick. “You want me to help you clean up?” she asks, gesturing awkwardly at Ava’s face, her neck, the lip prints everywhere.

Ava desperately wants that. Wants Sara to clean her up, wants her to to run her fingers through the tangles in Ava’s hair, wants it so much it hurts. But what she says is, “No. You can go. I can do it myself, thank you. I don’t need your help.”

She’s answering a different question than the one that Sara asked. She’s not strictly lying if she only talks about whether she _needs_ help, not if she wants it.

Sara nods, checks her lipstick one more time, shiny and sticky and dangerous, glances over at Ava, as if to check she’s decent—and then she’s gone.

Not even a question of Ava _reciprocating,_ because that’s not what this was.

It was just sex, desperate and needy and heartbreaking, and Sara hadn’t _wanted_ anything back, and maybe that’s the worst part of it all.

She stares at herself in the mirror, her knuckles gripped so tight to the counter top that they’re going white.

A few tears pool up and finally escape, rolling down her cheek. She dries them with a thumb, before locking the door again. She pulls out some of the wet wipes that this insanely luxurious bathroom provides, and wipes the evidence of Sara’s lips away. She’s just got rid of all of the red when her phone beeps.

_We have a hit. Mexico City, 1961._

She sets her jaw, takes two deep breaths, staring at herself in the mirror, and then leaves the room, forcing herself to think of nothing but the mission, to not leave a single space in her head for thoughts of Sara.

It just about works, and just about will… have to be enough.

There’s no other choice.


End file.
